“But Sally ain’t as handy as what Tillie is,” said Mrs. Getz, plaintively.  “And I don’t see how I’m goin’ to get through oncet without Tillie.”

“Sally’s got to learn to be handier, that’s all.  She’s got to get learnt like what I always learnt Tillie fur you.”

Fire flashed in Tillie’s soft eyes—­a momentary flame of shame and aversion; if her blinded father had seen and understood, he would have realized how little, after all, he had ever succeeded in “learning” her the subservience he demanded of his children.

As for the warning to her aunt, she knew that it would be ignored; that Aunty Em would never interfere with the use she made of the free time allowed her, no matter what her father’s orders were to the contrary.

“And you ain’t to have Absalom Puntz comin’ over there Sundays neither,” her father added.  “I tole Aunty Em like I tole you the other day, I ain’t leavin’ you keep comp’ny.  I raised you, now you have the right to work and help along a little.  It’s little enough a girl can earn anyways.”

Tillie made no comment.  Her silence was of course understood by her father to mean submission; while her stepmother felt in her heart a contempt for a meekness that would bear, without a word of protest, the loss of a steady friend so well-fixed and so altogether desirable as Absalom Puntz.

In Absalom’s two visits Tillie had been sufficiently impressed with the steadiness of purpose and obstinacy of the young man’s character to feel appalled at the fearful task of resisting his dogged determination to marry her.  So confident he evidently was of ultimately winning her that at times Tillie found herself quite sharing his confidence in the success of his courting, which her father’s interdict she knew would not interfere with in the least.  She always shuddered at the thought of being Absalom’s wife; and a feeling she could not always fling off, as of some impending doom, at times buried all the high hopes which for the past seven years had been the very breath of her life.

Tillie had one especially strong reason for rejoicing in the prospect of going to the village for the winter.  The Harvard graduate, if elected, would no doubt board at the hotel, or necessarily near by, and she could get him to lend her books and perhaps to give her some help with her studies.

The village of New Canaan and all the township were curious to see this stranger.  The school directors had felt that they were conceding a good deal in consenting to consider the application of sueh an unknown quantity, when they could, at forty dollars a month, easily secure the services of a Millersville Normal.  But the stress that had been brought to bear upon them by the county superintendent, whose son had been a classmate of the candidate, had been rather too strong to be resisted; and so the “Harvard gradyate man” was coming.

That afternoon Tillie had walked over in a pouring rain to William Penn to carry “gums” and umbrellas to her four younger brothers and sisters, and she had realized, with deep exultation, while listening to Ezra Herr’s teaching, that she was already far better equipped than was Ezra to do the work he was doing,—­and he was a Millersville Normal!